


Keep Up the Act

by beautifulEnmity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dissociation, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, at least a bit, but it's not detailed or graphic, but who am I tell you what to interpret this as, this was written with a platonic relationship in mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 16:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20245492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulEnmity/pseuds/beautifulEnmity
Summary: “I honestly never thought you would be such a good actor,” Noctis admits. “You could probably play any role you wanted.” The way he says it is completely normal, the look in his eyes showing nothing but an honest compliment, but Prompto feels his blood run cold. The bitter taste of the alcohol feels like it’s clinging to his mouth and the nice buzz it had brought with it is gone.He feels nauseous.





	Keep Up the Act

**Author's Note:**

> The obligatory MT reveal story.   
Set in a slight AU where Prompto knows he is an MT way before he does in the game. 
> 
> Sorry for all the angst

Prompto feels the stare of intent blue eyes burning into his skull. They’re a force that’s trying to crack through his resolve, but this time he will stay strong. He may have lost everything before but this time he has a fighting chance. Maybe even one to win. In any way, he will not lose, not today.

Pale, practiced fingers hover to the right and he feels his eye twitch. Time seems to stop for a second – maybe he didn’t notice, maybe he didn’t see – but when a triumphant smirk breaks out on Noctis’ face Prompto knows he’s lost. Gladio keeps telling him that he’s like an open book, but Prompto is sure that the three others are just way too observant, if he played against _normal_ people he could probably win. His poker face can’t be actually that bad right?

When Noctis pulls the winning card right out of his hand he seriously considers to never play any kind of card game with those three again.

“This is not fair,” he whines as he falls back onto the hotel bed, pouting when the only answer he gets is a snicker from Noctis and Gladio shrugging in a way that clearly says “I told you so", smirk ever present on his face.

“I demand a rematch and you all have to wear blindfolds. Then it’s finally a fair game.”

“I don’t think you lost because that game was _unfair. _It’s merely very easy to read your tells,” Ignis responds and Prompto can hear the smile in his voice.

It’s infuriating.

“Don’t be a sore loser now, Prompto. Drink up!” Gladio pushes his shot glass towards him on the table and Prompto sits up to glare at him. “I'm the only one who had to drink so far, how about you go for a change.”

That earns him a deep, rumbling laugh from Gladio.

“The loser drinks, that’s the rule.”

“But you all know I always lose at this game and I also have the lowest tolerance.”

Still, he dutifully knocks back his shot, cringing at the taste.

“You told me it would get better the more I drank,” he says while pointing an accusing finger at Ignis.

“Did I?” He isn’t able to completely suppress a grin and Prompto brings his hand to his heart with a dramatic gasp.

“Betrayal,” he whispers, an overly exaggerated expression of shock on his face, “I thought we were friends, but I’ve been backstabbed in the most brutal of ways.” An amused smile tugs at Ignis' lips and then he’s joining in: “’Tis nothing but your own fault, you clueless peasant. I've only ever played for the winning side and you still failed to anticipate my actions. It serves you well.” His words are a little stilted and not very natural, but that makes up most of the charm. “I thought of you as my friend,” Prompto counters then, “But now I see you are my enemy. En garde!” He picks up a magazine that he’s rolled up, expression dead serious, and begins swinging it wildly in Ignis direction, spurred on by the pleasant buzz of alcohol. He didn’t really expect Ignis to retaliate, but soon enough they’re having the magazine-sword fight of the century.

Prompto isn’t quite able to keep up the act, not when both Gladio and Noctis break out in laughter at his sides, a matching grin spreading over his own face.

“I honestly never thought you would be such a good actor,” Noctis admits a few moments later between bouts of laughter. “You could probably play any role you wanted.” The way he says it is completely normal, the look in his eyes showing nothing but an honest compliment, but Prompto feels his blood run cold. He lets the magazine fall down, adjusting his position on the bed instead. The bitter taste of the alcohol feels like it’s clinging to his mouth and the nice buzz it had brought with it is gone. He feels nauseous.

“Ha, yeah,” he forces out, voice thin and smile strained and dodges Noctis’ searching eyes as he tries to adjust his wristband, only noticing his nervous habit on the last second and he snatches his hand away. He has to play it cool, they don’t know, they wouldn’t suspect.

His stomach is a black hole trying to swallow him up completely in the silence that follows and Prompto can’t bring himself to look at the others. He can’t. If he does they will see. See right through his lies and expose him for the fake that he truly is. A copy of the enemy. An enemy they should fight.

He can feel their eyes on him and it takes every little piece of restraint he still has to not jump up and make a run for it. He can’t do this, how could he do this to them. He’s the very thing they’re fighting, part of the enemy that robbed them of their homes and killed the king, destroyed every little piece of happiness in their lives. And here is, having fun and drinking with them, worming his way further into their lives

If they knew they would hate him.

They should.

Prompto feels the pressure building behind his eyes, a slow and steady burn, and he can’t cry, oh my god, he can’t. He doesn’t want to die, but he should and it should be Noctis and Ignis and Gladio that killed him because they’ve been out for the Empire the entire time. It’s like he owes to give his life for them because that’s what he deserves and that’s what they deserve, to get rid of the traitor in their midst. They shouldn’t have to live with him.

It feels like the silence stretches on forever and Prompto can’t tell if it because he is panicking or if something is about to happen, but he knows he can’t stay like this. His resolve shatters and he almost mechanically gets up, a wave of nausea rolling in when he realises what his movements resemble.

“I, uh – “ his throat feels scratchy and his voice thin as he continues, already making his way to one of the doors adjoining their hotel room. “Bathroom.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he slams the door shut and locks it, sliding down to the cool tiled floor, back against the solid wood of the door.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth and tears pressing against his eyes and the dark churning mass inside of him is threatening to swallow him whole. He presses his trembling hands against legs and tries to breathe, but it’s as if his body doesn’t want to listen to him anymore. As if it realised how despicable Prompto is and decided to cut all ties with him, leaving him behind the same way his friends are going to if they ever found out about where he's from and what he is.

He can’t breathe and he’s shaking and the whole world is blurring behind a veil of tears.

He feels sick and wrong and disgusting and he only just manages to throw himself over the toilet before the content of his stomach decide they want back out. It feels like time is turning into a sludge around him because even after he’s done throwing up he still can’t breathe, his mouth making little aborted motions like a dying fish.

He’ll die, he’ll die, he'll _die_. And it’s what he deserves.

There’s an insisting knock against the door and a voice that’s saying something he can’t make out – how long has that been going on for?

He doesn’t know what to do so he does nothing, still desperately trying for air he doesn’t deserve. The voice gets louder and more... worried? And other voices are joining, but he can’t do anything, he’s hopeless and helpless and _dying._ He doesn’t know how much times passes, but his vision is starting to grow spotty and his arms are trembling so much that he can’t keep himself propped on the toilet and just slides down to the floor. The feeling of the cold tiles is there but not really because Prompto knows he’s also not really there. He can't even say if he exists anymore.

There’s a face above him suddenly, and huh, that’s weird. There’s something grabbing at him and his whole vision shifts in a nauseating way as he’s pulled upright against the bathtub. There’s still a face in front of him, moving his mouth and there’s also definitely a voice that's saying something. He doesn't want to but something keeps insisting he listen and even though it’s very hard to he tries.

“Prompto, _breathe_.”

The voice sounds kind of nice and what is it saying? His name. And “breathe”. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Breath in with me, okay? Slowly, in,”

For some reason this time his body listens and he manages to open his mouth and take in a bug gulp of air and it’s too much he feel too full, he’s going to burst, he’s going to-

“And out.”

As if on instinct he breathes out. And in. And out again. Following the instructions. He feels his heart beat wildly in his chest and there are tears streaming down his face and he feels so exhausted, his whole body limp as he can only concentrate on getting air through his mouth into his lungs and out again.

The face – Ignis – gives a relieved shuddery exhale and brings a hand tentatively up to Prompto’s face. Prompto can feel the touch of his fingers against his skin and feels like he should do something – lean closer or lean away, he doesn’t know – but he can only exist right now.

He studies the man in front of him for a second and he looks so worried that it almost physically hurts Prompto. Ignis shouldn't have to look like this, ever. He tries to open his mouth to say something, but he needs that for breathing and he wouldn’t have the strength anyway.

He feels his eyes shut and then he’s just gone.

-

He wakes up in a soft bed and everything hurts. His mouth tastes like something died in there and the light shining into the room is hurting his eyes.

A groan escapes him as he tries to sit up and almost immediately there’s rustling next to him. It’s only now that Prompto notices the arm that’s draped tightly over him and he looks to the side to see a mop of black hair pop up from beneath the covers. Noctis tightens his arm around him before he looks up to his face and astrals, he looks like he’s be through hell. His eyes are puffy and swollen and his hair isn’t helping at all. He can’t place the look that Noctis is fixing him with, but when he tries to speak his throat burns and he falls into a coughing fit, shaking violently in Noctis’ arms. He tries to calm his body down, breathe with intent, but the coughing doesn’t subside for a while.

There's a hand running along his back now, a soft kind of reassurance, and for a second Prompto is basking in this simple display of affection, but then his brain catches up to him and so do the events from last night. He feels the darkness creeping up inside of him again, but this time he vehemently pushes down on it. Yesterday was a one time thing, a moment of weakness, but he won’t let that happen again. He can’t. He’s already barely pulling his own weight on this trip, he will not burden the others with this, there’s no way he can allow that to happen.

Their entire companionship is built on a lie, but nobody needs to know that. He can just go on and pretend. Pretend he belongs, pretend that there’s a place for him here. Prompto knows he’s running on borrowed time, but he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts. If he could wish for anything at all, he'd want them to never find out about him, but he knows that won’t happen.

Honestly, he’s surprised that no one has noticed yet. Especially Ignis, all sharp eyes and analysing looks, paying attention to every detail. He should have found out already. But Ignis is also a genuinely good person, so he doesn’t pry, he trusts Prompto to tell them if it’s something important.

The thought makes him feel sick.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the hand on his back has stopped, leaving a lingering trail of warmth along his spine, before he hears Noctis clear his throat. He turns around partly to face him, knowing that the inevitable is finally arriving. There’s a small trickle of hope that the others may not have recognised his panic attack for what it was, but he feel it dry up as soon as Noctis opens his mouth.

“You had a panic attack yesterday.” It’s not a question.

There’s a moment of silence, sharp and clear like broken glass, before Prompto forces a smile that he knows is fraying at the corners, but its the best he can manage.

“What? Me? No way.” Just because he knows it’s futile doesn’t mean he can’t try. And anyway, isn’t he supposed to be good at acting?

Noctis’ brows furrow before his face shutters close, a neutral mask settling over his features. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, lingering for only a second before he pushes himself up.

“Gladio and Ignis are making breakfast. Join us when you’re ready.” It’s not a question either. He casts one last glance back at Prompto that’s completely unreadable and then disappears behind the door to the little kitchenette. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach and Prompto considers his options. He could run, go right now, even feeling like he was hit by a pickup truck he should still be able to make it. Or he could stay and face the aftermath of what happened yesterday. The decision is kind of a no-brainer, he should go right now if he wants any chance of surviving, but he’s hesitating. There’s a tiredness in him that doesn’t stem from his body. He doesn’t want to hide anymore, the others deserve to know the truth. And as a more selfish reason, he doesn’t want to leave them. It might be inevitable, but then he wants to spend as much time as possible while he’s still together with them, while he’s still part of the team.

He can’t leave and there's nowhere for him to go to anyway. Gladio, Ignis and Noctis are the only friends he's ever had.

He swallows around the lump in his throat as he slowly gets up, body aching in places he’s wasn’t even aware he had muscles in. He reaches the door and hears the low and steady murmur of a conversation and Prompto guesses that they’re talking about him because as soon as he gets close to the door it stops. The door handle is cold beneath his hand and he tries to stop it from trembling as he pushes the door open.

As soon as he enters the kitchen he feels three sets of eyes on him, the air heavy with all the things unsaid. He takes the only empty seat at the table, eyes trained downward, looking anywhere but the others. The silence stretches on for another few moments, probably to give him the chance to start talking first, because they’re considerate like that, but Prompto keeps his mouth shut. It’s hard enough to just sit there under the heavy gaze of their eyes and not give in to his instinct to run right back out the door.

Then he hears Ignis clear his throat and feels the tension dissipate the slightest amount.

“Prompto, I’m going to be direct with you. We all know that you suffered a panic attack yesterday and we are concerned for you. We don’t know what triggered it. We want to help but you need to let us. You need to tell us what we need to know about this to prevent it from happening in the future.”

Ignis voice is gentle and soft like one might talk to a frightened animal and Prompto feels his stomach clench and unclench, mirroring the motions of the hands in his lap. He swallows thickly and risks a glance up, right at Ignis who’s sitting in front of him, worry so clear and sharp on his face that it hurts and he snaps his gaze back down immediately. And oh gods, this is so much harder than he thought. His chest feels tight because they worry, they worry about _him_ and he wants that so bad, he craves their love and attention like his life depends on it, but _they don’t know_ _what he is_ and the thought goes through his heart like a dagger. There’s a familiar sting in his eyes and he chokes back a sob. He can’t cry now. He needs to say something, anything, preferably the truth, but he’s so weak and he can’t, he _can't_.

Gladio shifts at his side, tension rolling off of him in waves and Prompto realises that they still expect an answer from him, giving him time to do so even as they are probably just as shaken as he is. So Prompto open his mouth, doesn’t really know what to say, but at this point he can’t stay quiet anymore, but all that makes it past his lips is a low whimper that carries over the silence.

He realises he’s shaking again. Astrals, he can’t even do this right. He can’t even tell his best and only friends in the world what they deserve to know about him because he’s weak and scared and miles away from the kind of friend they deserve. He takes a shuddery breath and freezes when he feels a hand coming to rest in his shoulder. The heat feels like it’s burning him through his clothes.

“Out with it, kid, nothing’s gonna get solved like this,” Gladio says, voice gruff but uncharacteristically tender. It ignites a burn in his chest that he desperately wants to soothe. Gladio squeezes his shoulder once, showing his support, but also making sure that Prompto won’t try to run. They know him too well.

The tension in the room is growing and Prompto breaks, the strain on his mind and heart already past the point of no return.

“I’m an MT,” he whispers, so softly and quiet one might think it impossible to hear, but oh, he knows the others did. He’s acutely aware of the hand retreating from his shoulder.

“What?”

The question is asking with less venom and hatred than Prompto would have expected, confusion the only clear motivator. But nonetheless Prompto can’t answer. His throat had closed up the second the words had left his mouth, entire body going rigid with what he had done. The secret he has guarded his entire life now out in the open. His mind is screaming at him that this is a mistake and Prompto can’t deny or confirm that since none of the others are saying anything. It’s quiet, as if the entire world it’s holding its breath.

“I’m an MT,” he chokes out again, his voice louder this time.

He looks up and is met with three inscrutable expressions. Ignis has his brows furrowed, as does Gladio, but otherwise their faces are neutral and Noctis’ doesn't show anything either. He can’t tell if this is a good or bad thing.

“You are saying you’re one of the empire’s artificial soldiers?” It’s Ignis who breaks the silence and his voice sounds incredulous and more than sceptical.

Prompto feels himself nod, but it’s not really his doing. He’s spectacularly dissociating, at least he doesn’t have to endure the stress anymore. There’s still less hostility than he had anticipated and suddenly it clicks.

They probably don’t believe him.

He reaches for his arm and slips the glove off, wristbands following suit. The dark ink of the barcode is a stark contrast to his pale skin.

“Every MT has one of these. It’s an identification.” His voice is as hollow as he feels. And suddenly he just can’t stop talking, everything he had held inside for so long crawling to the surface, showing its ugly face.

“I was created in a Niflheim facility as an experiment, one of many clones, created to destroy Lucis.” His voice is barely a whisper now. “I’m a fake, not even human, a clone of the enemy. I _am_ the enemy.”

He didn’t realise he started crying until he feels the hot drops on the skin of his hands. He has thought about this moment a lot, expected rejection and violence and hatred, but he never expected the silence. It’s almost unbearable how much he wants it to end. For any of the others to say _something_, anything at all.

There’s the gentlest of touches on his back, a caress like a whisper through the fabric of his shirt, but still Prompto flinches as if he’s been burned. His head snaps around and he’s met with the clear crystal blue of Noctis’ eyes. They're the depths of the ocean and he could drown in them and never get back.

“Prompto...” he trails off, unsure, one hand still outstretched towards him. Then he takes it back.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto manages to press out and Noctis’ eyes widen.

“If anyone should be sorry it’s me. I’m sorry that I made you feel you had to hide this.”

Now it’s Prompto's turn to be surprised. He’s blinking unbelievingly at the Prince not sure what to make of those words.

“This is no small matter, and also something to be talked about more in depth, but Prompto, this doesn’t change who you are to us,” Ignis chimes in, the same traces of surprise and guilt on his face as Noctis.

“But I, I’m not even really human. I’ve been lying to you all this time, I..” He trails off as a sob breaks through him. They didn’t understand. How could he still be the same if he was never that person to begin with?

“Prompto, have you been talking to the Niffs at any time since you got to know us? Have you been selling them information about us?” Gladio's gaze is intense and Prompto can’t look away. Of course they’d suspect he’s been spying, _of course_. “No,” he manages to say, “ No, I didn’t I swear, I didn’t do anything.” He doesn’t know if they’ll believe that. He didn’t really try to bring forth any arguments.

“Then I don’t see where the problem is,” Gladio grumbles, still staring intently at Prompto. “Do you wanna hurt us?” He shakes his head. “Then there’s no problem at all.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re fine, kiddo.”

Prompto does a double take. None of them reacted violently, no one pushed him away, they...accepted him? He doesn’t want to hope because the despair of that hope getting crushed would be too much, but he can’t help himself.

“Can I... stay with you then?” he asks tentatively into the silence of the room and the answers come immediately.

“Of course.”

“Obviously.”

“Sure, kid.” 

The tears streaming down his face fall differently now. He’s drowning in the hope that this can be okay that they can get back to normal because now they know _and they still what him anyway_.

This time he doesn't flinch away from the arms that circle around him or the hands that rest on his shoulders or the ones that take his hands into their own. He feels warm and whole for the first time in years, the darkness in the back of his mind having retreated so far back he can’t even feel a trace at the moment.

And Prompto cries and sobs and let’s himself go, let’s himself be held, mind filling with their soft whispering voices that tell him he belongs. He knows they still need to talk about this, when their emotions aren’t running as high, and even though he doesn’t want to, he knows it’s going to be okay. Because he’s not alone. Because he’s found a family.

**Author's Note:**

> I migh write a second part to this if people are interested!  
(and if you want come see me on tumblr @ softrealism )


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